


I Am a Runner and You Are Your Father's Son

by fitofpique



Category: Lost
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-20
Updated: 2006-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 01:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitofpique/pseuds/fitofpique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See you in another life, Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Am a Runner and You Are Your Father's Son

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through episode 2.1, _Man of Science, Man of Faith_

Desmond finds himself sitting next to the doctor at the bar around the corner from his hotel that same night. He'd not thought to see him again, but he's learned to take his company where he can get it these days. 

"I thought I told you to keep that ankle elevated," he says. 

"What?" Jack asks, turning unsteadily on his bar stool. When recognition hits, a smile spreads across his face. "Oh! It's you..." he trails off uncertainly.

"Desmond," he finishes helpfully, "and you're Jack." 

"Desmond, right! It would have come to me in a second, I'm just," he lifts his mostly empty glass, "I don't drink much." 

"You'd never know it," Desmond replies, catching the bartender's eye and gesturing for another round. 

Jack laughs. "That's kind of you to say," he says, draining his glass, "but not true."

The bartender appears with their drinks and Desmond puts a twenty on the bar, waving dismissively when Jack reaches for his wallet. "So you're celebrating," he says, after he's had a wee drink, "I guess that means you beat the devil after all."

The smile fades slowly from Jack's face. He stares down at the highly polished bar, silent and serious. "How did you know?" he asks, after a long moment's silence. 

How did Desmond know? That's the question, isn't it? He just _knew_. But he's learned that's a truth most people aren't ready to hear. "I didn't know," he lies. 

"The damage to her spinal cord was so extensive, it's impossible, it's–" Jack shrugs helplessly.

"A miracle?" Desmond says. 

Jack looks up at him and nods, confusion plain on his face. "Who are you?" he asks.

Desmond just fakes a smile and takes another drink.

:::

"Who _are_ you?" Jack asks again a few hours later. He's on his knees on hard tile in his kitchen, unzipping Desmond's trousers. Desmond sinks back against the door of the stainless steel fridge, shivering at the chill and the feel of Jack's hands on him, surprisingly steady after the night they've had.

Desmond groans, hips stuttering forward involuntarily when Jack mouths his balls. "If you want my autobiography, you'll have to stop," he gasps. "I'm rubbish at multi-tasking."

Jack rolls his eyes and slips his mouth down over Desmond's prick. 

"Later. I'll tell you–" Desmond falters. Jack leans in close, tightening his lips and reaching behind Desmond to squeeze his arse. A rush of pleasure prickles up his spine and his eyes flutter shut; he has to press his palms against the cool steel of the door to stop himself melting at the desperate sliding heat of it. 

This is all very unexpected. Desmond hasn't had many surprises since the accident, but Jack kneeling in front of him, sucking him hard and moaning around his prick – he'd be a liar right enough if he said he'd seen this coming. His head is spinning, but the sound of buttons popping open reaches him through his haze and he forces his eyes open. He looks down at Jack who is looking up at him, stroking himself off with his jeans shoved halfway down his narrow hips. Desmond tries to hold his gaze, wide-open and already familiar, but Jack does something obscenely clever with his tongue and fingers and all thoughts of holding back are lost. 

"Oh fuck," Desmond whispers reverently, his vision blurring as red pleasure pulses through him. He wraps his fingers tightly in Jack's hair and trusts his legs to hold him. 

His trust is misplaced. He lies on the cool tiles until he has his strength back and then turns to Jack, who's lying next to him, still working himself. He pushes Jack's hand away so he can grasp his prick and leans in to press their mouths together for the first time, licking and biting at Jack's lips until he opens his mouth and kisses back. 

"Desmond, stop. You don't...you don't have to," Jack says, struggling to sit up. 

Desmond squeezes Jack's prick fiercely until he groans and bucks his hips. "Fair exchange is no robbery," he says.

"It isn't like that," Jack insists, pressing one hand to Desmond's chest, holding him still.

"I know," Desmond murmurs, gently pulling Jack back to the floor. He wraps his arms around him and kisses him until he stops fighting. "Show me how it is, brother," he says.

And Jack does.

:::

He wakes to the harsh clanging of cymbals, in a thick pall of black smoke. He tries to strike out with his arms, kicks wildly with his legs, but he's bound. He can't move, can't breathe, can't see.

He isn't alone.

A hand touches his shoulder and he flinches. _Where am I?_ he tries to ask, but his mouth is full of sand. A white light flares to life, blinding him, and he cowers from it, turning his face away.

"Wake up," a familiar voice says, "it's just a dream, Desmond." 

The smoke clears and his bonds fall away. He's in a bed, a vast bed made up with crisp white linens, and Jack is with him, gentling him awake, grasping his shoulder, helping him to sit up. 

"Just a dream," he says shakily, rubbing his hand over his sweaty face. "Sweet fucking _Christ_." He accepts a bottle of water from Jack and takes a long drink. 

"That sounded bad, man. Are you all right?" Jack leans back against the headboard, covers pooled around his hips, and stares at him intently.

Desmond feels himself flush. "I'm fine," he mutters, "Sorry to have woken you. I'll just away home, let you get your kip." He gets up and looks around for his clothes but the room is pristine, not so much as a single sock on the floor. He feels ridiculous standing there in the altogether. 

Jack is frowning at him. "Don't be stupid," he says. "It's three in the morning. Get back in bed." 

"You're sure?" he asks. Jack just sighs and lifts the sheet. Desmond slides into bed next to him and lies back, stiff and uncomfortable, the too-vivid images from his dream threatening to seep back if he closes his eyes. 

Jack straightens the covers, turns off the lamp, and lies down. They're still and silent for a long minute and then Jack sighs again and inches closer, his warm thigh pressing against Desmond's cold one. He leans in and kisses his shoulder. "Try to relax," he says, rubbing his hand over Desmond's belly. 

Desmond rolls onto his side and Jack wraps an arm around his waist and snugs up close behind him, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of his neck. He shivers and presses himself back, grinding his arse into Jack's pelvis. He can't to go back to sleep. Not yet.

Jack groans and his kiss turns into a bite. "Yeah?" he asks, his hand inching downward, hovering over Desmond's cock.

"Yeah," Desmond replies, grabbing Jack's hip and pulling him closer. Jack slides his hand between them and traces a finger over the crack of Desmond's arse, presses his hot forehead against Desmond's neck.

"Can I fuck you?" Jack asks, breathlessly. 

Something like relief washes over him and he can barely speak past the lump in his throat. "Please," Desmond says, and if Jack hears the desperation in his voice he's gracious enough not to mention it. 

Later, when Jack finally pushes into him, it doesn't feel like the first time.

:::

When he wakes the next time, watery sunlight is filtering through the shades and Jack is knotting his tie in front of the mirror. Their eyes meet and Jack smiles, slow and lazy, the very picture of a satisfied man. Desmond smiles back, silently congratulating himself.

"You're awake." Jack strides over to the bed and sits down on the edge. "No more dreams?" he asks.

"No, I think I was too tired after ... after," Desmond clears his throat. "Thanks for that, by the way."

"It was my pleasure." Jack ducks his head, worries a loose thread on the pillowcase. "Listen, I have a meeting with Sarah and her family. They want to talk about her recovery, what it will involve," he pauses, his expression illegible, and then continues. "I'm free for lunch though. If you are." 

"Yes," Desmond answers, and far too quickly. "I mean, I have to meet my trainer at the gym later on, but there's no point doing that until I get a bit of strength back in my legs." 

Jack leans in, kissing him hard on the mouth. "Great. So...one o'clock? Can you come by the hospital?" 

Desmond curls his hands around the sheets bunched at his waist to stop himself touching his lips. "I can, yeah."

"In the meantime, make yourself at home, have a shower, breakfast, whatever." Jack stands and walks over to the doorway, staring at Desmond and biting his lip. 

He stares back. "Thanks, Jack." 

"I'll see you in a few hours," Jack says, and disappears down the hallway. 

Desmond hears the door swing closed behind him and then the apartment is silent but for the buzz of the digital clock on the bedside table and the distant rumble of traffic. He lies back in the bed and laughs to himself.

He's still smiling when he leaves the apartment almost an hour later.

:::

"This is a really lovely office," he says, after the receptionist has gone, closing the door behind her. He leans back against it, narrowing his eyes and looking over at Jack behind his desk. "Does the door lock?"

"I don't, I'm not sure," Jack stammers. He starts to rise from his chair but Desmond shakes his head.

"No, don't get up," he says, "I'll do it." He locks the door quietly and then crosses the room, leans against the edge of Jack's desk. "How long do you have for lunch?" 

"I'm done for the day, actually," Jack says. 

He looks a bit nervous but not too uncomfortable, so Desmond leans down and kisses him, a long, indecent kiss, then pulls him out of his chair and turns him so he can ease him back against the broad wooden desk. "Relax, Jack," he says, running his palm firmly over the bulge in Jack's trousers, "let me do this." 

" _Yes_ ," Jack says. He stares at Desmond's hands as he pushes his trousers and pants down, over his prick, which is already so hard, rising flush against his belly. "What are you doing to me?" he asks, but his question turns into a moan when Desmond starts to stroke him, slow and relentless. 

Jack's eyes sink shut. Desmond drops to his knees and takes his prick into his mouth, letting Jack's hips rise under his fingertips, taking him deep into his throat, and it isn't long before he has Jack writhing on the desk, cursing and pleading. "Oh, fuck fuck _fuck_. I need...please, Desmond. _Please._ Fuck me."

"Later," Desmond says, slicking his finger with saliva and working it in deep inside him.

"Later," Jack echoes, every muscle in his body taut and straining toward orgasm. 

Desmond closes his eyes and hopes that's a promise.

:::

"Do you mind if I check in on Sarah on the way out?" Jack asks as he tucks his shirt into his trousers. He looks flushed and rumpled and pleased. 

Desmond shakes his head. "Will I meet you downstairs then?" 

Jack straightens the knot in his tie. "No, come with me. I think you'll like her."

“All right,” he says, and trails behind Jack through the hallways, admiring his arse and thinking about _later_.

Sarah is crying silently when they walk through the door of her room. "Hi," she sniffles. 

"Are you all right?" Jack asks, wrapping his hand around her wrist and checking her pulse. 

"I'm fine. It's just," she accepts a tissue from Jack and wipes her streaming eyes, "the wedding's off."

Desmond backs toward the door, hoping to slip out unnoticed. 

Jack looks pained. "Sarah, I know it's not my place to say this but–" he picks up her chart and scrawls something on it.

"Tell me," she says.

"He's an asshole, Sarah. You could do so much better."

Sarah reaches out and touches Jack's arm, sends him a grateful look, and that's when Desmond sees it. And it's just like every other time: a truth, fixed and solid in his mind. This _will_ happen. 

Some movement he makes catches Jack's eye and he turns, drawing him back into the room. "Sarah, this is my friend, Desmond."

"Hi," she says, "sorry about the waterworks."

"Not at all," he says. She looks so forlorn that he almost wants to reassure her, give her a push in the right direction, but he's not that good a person, and it's an inevitability whether he does or not. "Happy to meet you, Sarah. Best of luck with your recovery." 

Desmond walks out into the hall and leans against the wall, feeling sick and powerless. 

He wonders how much time he has.

:::

His thighs ache from bending Jack over the dresser so they could watch themselves fuck in the mirror, his arms are shaking from knocking Jack's hands away from his cock and holding them both up while he brought him off, but Desmond can't sleep. Jack is lying quiet beside him, but he's stroking Desmond’s side, long smooth strokes, so Desmond knows he's awake. 

"Do you ever think of getting away?" he asks.

"What, like on holiday?" Jack says. 

He covers Jack's hand with his own. "No," he says, swallowing the fear that rises in his throat, "I mean like moving away from Los Angeles for a while. I'm going to be training in Mexico for six months, I'm sure they need doctors there."

He feels Jack tense beside him. "But I have patients here," he says, his voice tight, "I have responsibilities – I can't just leave. And I told you about my father–"

"I know," Desmond interrupts, "I was just talking shite. Never mind, never mind at all."

"When do you have to leave?" Jack asks, sliding closer, wrapping his arms around Desmond's waist.

"I don't know." Desmond sighs and rests his head on Jack's shoulder, lacing their fingers together. 

He doesn't move until long after Jack's fallen asleep.

:::

Desmond slides quietly out of bed, pulls his jeans on and pads barefoot out to the living room. He stands in front of the bookshelves, scans the titles until one catches his eye. He pulls the thin volume from the shelf: it's never been open. The spine's stiff, the pages crisp, but the poems are old and as familiar to him as the songs his Mum sang to him when he was a boy. He lets the words soothe him for as long as they will, but it isn't long. 

He has to leave straight away. He'll never have a moment's peace now he's realized it's him the devil's chasing. He can't stay another minute, can't let what he's feeling grow any stronger, any more insistent. His heart taps out a jagged, stubborn tattoo against his fingertips. _Run_ , it says.

He finds a pad of paper and a pen in a drawer in the kitchen and starts to write.

_I've never been good with words, so I'll let these lines speak for me. Please believe me when I say that I wish things were different. See you in another life, Jack._

Desmond uses the note to mark page 108 and leaves the slender volume on Jack's bedside table. 

Jack doesn't stir when he kisses him goodbye. 

_Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part;  
Nay, I have done, you get no more of me,  
And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart  
That thus so cleanly I can free;  
Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows,  
And when we meet at any time again,  
Be it not seen in either of our brows  
That we one jot of former love retain.  
Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath,  
When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,  
When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,  
And Innocence is closing up his eyes,  
Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,  
From death to life thou mightst him yet recover. _

_–Michael Drayton (1563-1631)_


End file.
